


Per the Agreement

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Implied Consent, Light BDSM, M/M, Objectification, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Aziraphale has a fantasy. Crowley is an integral part of that fantasy, and more than happy to oblige anything his angel does desire. And his angel does desire to be used by one bad demon.





	Per the Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> I had an itch and it had to be scratched. I can't be blamed for what happens afterwards.
> 
> Fun fact, though, I spelled glasses like "glarses" twice, and I don't know what came over me. I wrote some of this while i was half asleep, so. Anyway.

London was sleeping, or perhaps, rather on her way to sleep. The hour was late, and the bookshop was closed, but Aziraphale wasn’t much for sleeping. Such a particular indulgence had never been one he fancied, not in the wake of an extra slice of cake and old French novel. All of the candles were blown out, the lights turned off, every book put precisely back where it belonged. Aziraphale was just where he belonged, as well, sitting in a plush armchair just to the side of the main showroom, his feet up on a vintage ottoman. The lamp to the side was dim, but just enough that he could carefully make out each word from the tip of his nose, where his readers were perched. Being an angel, his eyesight was quite perfect. The readers were just, well, he thought he looked rather nifty in them with lenses made of clear glass. No one was around to know the difference, anyhow.

At least, no one was supposed to be. He was quite certain he’d locked up for the night, flipped the little sign over and shut the blinds. Still, Aziraphale swore he’d heard a noise. This particular novel was known for getting a bit steamy, a bit heated somewhere bout the middle. Aziraphale had nearly reached that part when the noise had sounded. It had been loud enough, just enough, that he set the novel down and moved to his feet again. After one check about the shop, he’d return and set down and take a bite or two of his cake. But first, the shop. With the lights off both inside and out, seeing as how the rest of the city was well on her way to sleep, it wasn’t quite the easy step around. Not when he had books piled up on the floor in a once vague attempt to organize things differently. After an attempt, he found he rather liked the comforting disarray of things. An organized chaos, he’d said, as he knew precisely where everything was at any given moment.

Might it have required a miracle, well, no one needed to know that.

He stepped about the bookshelves, slowly, looking for whatever might have made the sound. Animals would be no good in the shop, definitely not, and even worse—no. He didn’t let himself dwell on the thought of an intruder. Not as though he had anything really of worth, unless a book thief had come about to steal dusty old novels. They were, rather, first editions and in pristine condition, but that didn’t help to calm his nerves. The noise popped up in a different part of the shop again, this time more distinct. Aziraphale followed it, regardless of the stirring in his gut that told him this was a bad idea. Better to leave out the door and perhaps, well, call the police to investigate. Better that they find a rat than Aziraphale find an intruder. But he pressed on.

One last sweep before he’d concluded the shop was all and well empty, so he returned to his chair and his novel. Only, something was different. The lighting was all the same, but his cake was surely missing a bite out of it that he hadn’t taken. But more pressingly, the desk just across the way was far cleaner than he’d left it. It’d been cleared off, all of the books set off to the side in neat little stacks. They weren’t particularly organized, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the one that had been open resided on top, a bookmark sticking out in just the place he’d left. Which he had most certainly left it on the table, wide open, without a bookmark. That, or perhaps his mind was bothered and mixing things up. There must have been another night he’d left everything out, and this night he cleaned.

He turned back towards his armchair, his novel, his _cake_ —and the light switched off before he’d even made a step. The bookshop was never one for faulty power, so it must have been. Oh, dear. Whatever it was, an intruder was not the right word for it. Not in the dark way it slithered up behind him until a solid form appeared with arms wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him back to where he had no choice but to lean his head back against the shoulder, to feel the sudden hiss in his ear.

“Evening,” a rather _polite_ hiss, given the way his fingernails were pressing into the meat of Aziraphale’s sides, through his jacket.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried not to sound too excited, but the shiver in his voice was more than evident. Crowley even chuckled over it. From the press of his face, his _skin_ , Aziraphale could tell he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Thought I’d pop in for a visit. It’s been too long.”

“Oh, well, it’s been nearly a month since you last—”

“ _Dropped by_?” Crowley’s voice sounded dark; his fingers pressed a little firmer. They both knew that wasn’t entirely what he meant. These were more or less _scripted_ scenarios, in the way Crowley did just _drop by_. “It is about that time again.”

Aziraphale shuddered in Crowley’s hold, Crowley’s lips on his neck just dragging along in subtle little kisses, his tongue poking out to taste.

“I’m here to _collect_ , angel. The agreement,” and he dragged out the word in a bit of a mocking song, then took Aziraphale’s ear lobe between his teeth and tugged.

“But—we don’t, it’s _over_ —” Aziraphale gasped when the bite turned sharp. He couldn’t find it within himself to struggle out of Crowley’s hold, even if he couldn’t relax into it. Not with the way Crowley was teasing along the shell of his ear with that _tongue_ , forked as it was. Long, wet, dipping into everything. Aziraphale had always been a bit sensitive around the ears.

“Is it, angel?” Crowley hissed. “Or do you think they’re still watching us? Watching how you give yourself up to me? Or is it, rather,” and his hands had moved to Aziraphale’s hips, grabbing hard at the meat there and pulling him back so he could feel the straining need against his backside, “how I _take_ you?”

Aziraphale whimpered.

“Bet they get off on it too,” Crowley continued, dipping down to undo Aziraphale’s trousers, “bet they wish they were this lucky.”

Lucky wasn’t precisely the term Aziraphale would use, but he trembled with delight—nervousness as Crowley slipped his jacket away. The way Crowley laid the jacket on his armchair did not go unnoticed, but then he was back and grabbing Aziraphale by the collar to spin him around and back him, crowd him back against the desk. They were kissing a second later, Crowley’s lips hot and incessant. Aziraphale might have steadied himself against the desk, but his hands were between them and on Crowley’s chest. His pathetic attempt to push Crowley away only spurned him on, brought him closer where he shoved his knee between Aziraphale’s thighs and ground up into his Effort. Aziraphale was only half hard in his pants, but that wasn’t really the _point_ this time around; Crowley was aching and rutting into Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale gave another half-hearted shrug and ended up shuddering when Crowley nipped at his bottom lip, then bit down and tugged. And— _oh_ , his tongue was suddenly deep in Aziraphale’s mouth, swirling over his teeth and prodding along the nerves at the top of his mouth. Aziraphale’s knees were shaking, ready to give out, but Crowley’s thigh was there to stop him, hoist him higher until the edge of the desk was digging into the swell of his arse, and he gasped into the kiss. The things Crowley’s tongue could do, nearly and well down his throat if he so desired. Aziraphale was having a difficult time _not_ desiring that. Even when Crowley had pulled back to forcibly turn him on his heels and bend him down over the desk.

“Oh—!” Aziraphale did try to steady himself, but Crowley pushed down between his shoulder blades—where his _wings_ would be—and his elbows gave out beneath him.

“Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable now, angel, would we?” Crowley was right up against him, his prick hard and pressing along the curve of his arse as Crowley whispered in his ear.

“Please, we don’t have to do this—”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand before he pulled back and went to work on the pesky trousers. They were just so tailored enough that, even with the belt and button undone, they hadn’t wormed their own way down. “Besides,” and Crowley said this part with something like awe, “you _like_ this.”

Aziraphale gasped in the offense of it, but his pants were being dragged down his thighs, then his underwear, and when he tried to move, Crowley clamped down on his back again. He hit the desk hard, with a thud, and the air seemed to be knocked out of him.

“I wasn’t _asking,_ ” Crowley hissed, dangerously close to his ear, enough that when his tongue slipped out on the hard _s_ that it ghosted along Aziraphale’s ear, and he shivered. “You _enjoy_ this.”

“I—”

Crowley took a sudden, painful handful of his arse and pressed impossibly closer.

“I do! I do—oh, please that—” Aziraphale gripped into the wood of the desk, squeezed his eyes. “I enjoy this, I enjoy this—”

“Tell me you want it,” Crowley’s _nails_ were digging into his skin now.

“I want it, I want you,” Aziraphale cried. “Oh, Crowley—I _need_ you, please—”

“Need what, angel?” Crowley started kissing along his shoulder in stark contrast to the painful grip he had; his hips were moving again, too, pressing his covered cock into the plush swell before him. Aziraphale shivered.

“I, I need you. I need you to make—to, _ah,_ ” he broke off when Crowley’s lips brushed over a particularly sensitive part between his shoulder blades, then bit down over it. Crowley’s grip loosened, thank _Somebody_ , but he was scraping his nails up and down in mock massage.

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale whined, and Crowley did _almost_ stop, but Aziraphale continued: “I need you inside me, I need you to have your way with me—” he hiccupped. Crowley had brought his hand down hard against his backside, marveling in the way it bounced after the fact.

“That’s my angel,” Crowley hissed at him, then pulled back. “Don’t move.”

Aziraphale didn’t dare. He stayed where he’d been put, bent over the desk with his face and chest pressed into the wood, his hands gripped into fists. He _listened_ , but he couldn’t see. Crowley flipped the lamp back on, though he probably didn’t need to. After all, Crowley was a snake, and like many demons, he always had a problem keeping himself fit and proper into that human body. Even if snakes couldn’t really _see_ in the dark, it was close enough to night vision that the semantics didn’t really matter. Still, he’d turned on the light before he started working on his own pants. All he did was open the button, the fly, before he glanced back up at Aziraphale.

“Don’t you look like a treat,” Crowley popped the smallest bit of a smirk and stalked forward. He dragged his hands over Aziraphale’s rear again, squeezing and molding the fat between his fingers, pulling those cheeks apart and spreading Aziraphale out wide. Like a feast. Aziraphale’s thighs were trembling with the effort to stay up, and Crowley did so appreciate that particular effort. The way he could map the tremors down through his skin was just a reminder of how much he loved these thighs, loved the way he could squeeze into them, and Aziraphale would just fall apart. He rather liked that, picking his angel apart piece by little piece.

“You have been rather good tonight,” Crowley mused, dropping down to his knees. “Perhaps you deserve something. Do you?” a very pointed question. “Do you think you deserve my kindness, angel?”

Aziraphale stammered around an answer. An affirmative seemed too forward, but to deny it? Crowley might take that serious, and— _oh_. Crowley’s hand came down hard across his backside again, and it left a touch of fire in his wake, the sting of it.

“I asked you a question, angel.”

“Right—I’m sorry,” he gasped out.

“Should have known better than to ask,” Crowley’s tone was mocking. “You know better by now. You’re to just stay still and take what I give, yes? That’s what you’re for.”

“Yes—yes, Crowley,” then Aziraphale clamped his lips shut as Crowley’s hand came down once more. This time, just for _fun_ , if the little chuckle was anything to note. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and then, oh _then_ —Crowley was always so good to him.

Crowley licked a stripe right between his cheeks, hot and heavy, wet and _warm._ His legs were threatening to give out, but Crowley took a sudden tight grip on his thighs, fingernails digging into the flesh there, and licked again. He played over the tight little hole like a ghost’s touch with the forked end of his tongue. Just enough to watch Aziraphale twitch and moan, then he dove forward. His tongue slipped right in, and this time, Aziraphale groaned out. Crowley’s tongue was long, longer than it had any right to be, and where it lacked in size, it made up for with _nimbleness_. There wasn’t an inch of that tongue that Crowley didn’t have complete control over, even now, pressing and licking all around the _one_ spot that would truly tear Aziraphale undone. All the while, Aziraphale could feel every press of Crowley’s lips against his entrance like he really was and truly eating—the idea of it stole a breathy little gasp, his nails digging into the wood of his desk.

Then, just as fast as it had begun, Crowley pulled back and stood. When Aziraphale made move to dare and _protest_ , Crowley shoved him down hard to the desk slapped against his arse cheek before grabbing the mound, hard, with his nails again in just the way that had Aziraphale shaking. His lips were clamped tight, now, and he did not even dare take a peek over his shoulder at what was sure to be a sight. Crowley, standing there and stroking his own cock, looking down over the curve of Aziraphale’s arse with pure yellow eyes and an unmatched _lust_ for him. Angels had imaginations, though. They weren’t rather good ones, often times, but they did have them. With it, Aziraphale could imagine what Crowley looked like, how with every stroke he spread precum down his shaft, stopping every so often to squeeze at the head of his cock and groan over it. Oh, how he could hear each little noise Crowley made, and then— _then._

There were fingers up against his arse, wet with—Aziraphale _hoped_ it was Crowley’s own, but there was really no way to be sure—and pressing inside with a slick and easy glide. Just one finger, slow and searching. Then two, just as quick, and a sharp burn shot straight through Aziraphale’s spine. He groaned with it, a sad whimpering thing because it had, rather, pained him. Not enough to truly cry out, but enough that Crowley had to hold him down from the squirming, trying to edge away from those fingers. Every skilled, though, just as the sting began to subside, a third finger found its way inside. Wormed up with the others, stretching and prodding Aziraphale apart.

He was groaning, shifting, his hips shaking involuntarily _back_ against the fingers—how his own body betrayed him. Even in a time like this. This wasn’t. He wasn’t _meant_ to be enjoying this, but his body had an entire mind of its own. Even as Crowley had rightfully ignored everything save his arse, his puckered little entrance, Aziraphale’s cock was hanging hard between his thighs, twitching with every press of Crowley’s fingers. A traitorous thing it was, but Aziraphale tried to ignore it and closed his eyes. Crowley’s fingers were gone, replaced with something blunt and hot.

Crowley hadn’t pushed in, though. No, he just lingered, smirking to himself as he rubbed between Aziraphale’s cheeks. With every twitch of his hips, the fat of his arse moved in such an enticing way, Crowley just couldn’t help himself. He squeezed each mound of flesh, enveloping his own cock in the warmth of it and rocking his hips. Aziraphale had flushed down to his chest, his eyes wide at the new sensation. With every role, Crowley managed to catch on his hole, the _promise_ of what he was about to do. Pound Aziraphale into his desk, his _work_ desk, where he sat down to read and do inventory and mull over translations and write and—

“Ah!” Aziraphale was crying now, a sudden slap enough to jolt his entire body.

“ _Don_ _’t_ zone out on me, angel,” Crowley was leaning over his back, where Aziraphale could feel the buttons and fine fabric of his shirt. Against his ass was the rough denim of his jeans, the cold and sharp press of the undone zipper. “I want you to feel everything.”

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale nodded. He was going to feel everything, anything Crowley had in store for him.

Crowley was pushing inside him a moment later; his cock was thicker than—Aziraphale had no business knowing what Crowley’s cock felt like, but this. This nearly, nearly hurt, but the slide was so slow and torturous that all Aziraphale could do was hiss and take it; Crowley’s hand was heavy on the back of his neck, keeping him in place. Crowley was _enjoying_ this, the way Aziraphale clenched around him, the tight warm heat of it. He even groaned, letting his head roll back as he bottomed out, his hips flush with Aziraphale’s arse. His zipper, a cold and hard thing pressed up just where it needn’t be, but somehow it just made it more, more— _thrilling_ , the little bite of pain.

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. When Crowley started to move, his hips bucked back to meet him. Every thrust bordered on painful, Crowley’s nails digging into his hips. Leaving a mark on him, in angry red stripes as Crowley was yanking him back to meet each thrust, finding purchase in the plush skin when he lost grip. He was chasing his own orgasm, Aziraphale just a tool for it. Using Aziraphale for his own pleasure. His pace was near brutal, a rough rock of his hips and the slap of skin lighting up the space between them. Demons, well, true to the particular nature of seduction, had stamina abound. Aziraphale knew well he could keep this up all night, Crowley, if he wanted to. Nothing about his particular physiology, human as it looked, said he _had_ to reach a climax. That was a feature he could just turn off. If he so desired, Crowley could keep Aziraphale pressed into this desk, cock buried in his ass until the sun rose.

Aziraphale groaned at the thought, that Crowley might use him like that, like a _thing_ to be had, to be used. When he tried to reach down to touch himself, Crowley had grabbed both of his wrists and wrenched his arms behind his back, drawing a near shout from him. His hips slowed after that, thrusts now slow and _hard_ —the desk shook each time Crowley’s hips slapped forward. Aziraphale was helpless, now, tethered in place with nothing ado except take each painful movement.

“We don’t _touch_ ourselves,” Crowley hissed at him. “If you want to come, you’ll do it like this.” _This_ , punctuated quite heavily with the drag of Crowley’s prick inside him. It was throbbing, heavy, somehow impossibly large and spreading Aziraphale farther open with every press forward, every wonderful, dragging _press_.

“You’d better hurry,” Crowley warned, leaning back again to squeeze and grope, molding Aziraphale’s arse between his fingers. He was close, Aziraphale could tell from the ragged breathes, the sudden stuttering thrusts. Crowley was _chasing_ his own orgasm, ready for it, aching for it. Aziraphale was so sweet around him, a tight grip with the way his walls clenched and seemed to draw him in closer, to keep him there.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you, angel?” Crowley’s nails dragged up his back, scraping over where his wings might be—but he knew better than to show them. Not amongst all these books, where the pure size was sure to knock something off balance. “If I were to just keep you how I like you, ready to use. I’d keep you stuffed and full, so I’d never have to wait for you. No, I could just _take_ you,” and he hissed out his desire, a hard roll of his hips. Aziraphale gasped, nodding hurriedly and working his hips back to meet Crowley’s.

“Oh, angel, yes—” Crowley dragged off into a hiss, throwing his head back and giving one, two, stuttering and painful thrusts with his nails in Aziraphale’s skin. He came, a hot burst inside Aziraphale, enough to make him shudder and gasp.

Even through it, Crowley didn’t stop moving, rolling his hips. He fucked into Aziraphale, to the point that it _hurt._ Aziraphale was sensitive, oversensitive, and Crowley hadn’t stopped. Still, he kept—he kept going until he’d finished coming. Then, he pulled back. Aziraphale was all colored purple and red from his nails, the spanking, the way his zipper had dug painfully into Aziraphale’s skin. There was a beat of silence.

* * *

Precisely two days ago, Crowley had been happily content to sit rather silently and dramatically, draped over an armchair with the television on in front of him. For the occasion, he’d lent his desk to Aziraphale, who insisted that whatever he had to do was so important that they do it before dinner. They didn’t usually meet at Crowley’s flat for dinner, but Aziraphale had insisted. Another half-baked excuse to bring something of his and accidentally leave it, but it worked all the same. Crowley had an extra moment to finish his program and Aziraphale had a desk to use that was far bigger than his own. Except, when Crowley checked his watch, they were ten minutes away from being fabulously late for the one real reservation they’d ever had.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley called over his shoulder, “shouldn’t we be leaving soon.”

“Yes—yes, we should, but uh—” there was quite a clatter was Aziraphale stood up, followed by a groan. Crowley sat properly that he might see what had just happened and saw a book or two now scattered on the floor. Nothing else had changed.

“Have you even been working? Or have I been watching the telly all this time for nothing?”

“No, no, I uh—I got caught up with something, yes. Nothing important. Nothing for you to worry about, I assure you.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and dragged himself out of the chair. He sauntered across the room, in his way, until he came to lean into the desk and regard Aziraphale from the top line of his glasses. An accusatory look sat on his brows, eyes a flash of yellow just the way that made Aziraphale a little nervous in all the right ways. Crowley knew a few tricks, enough that Aziraphale sat defeated in the chair and wrung his hands in his lap.

“I was thinking, is all.”

“Yes, you do an awful lot of that. Waste of time, I say.”

“Yes, _you_ say, but this might actually have your interest taken care of too.”

“Oh?” Crowley was interested.

“I was just, well, I was wondering if there was something that you might,” he paused, bouncing his hands, “do for me.”

“Do for you.”

“Yes, _do_ for me.”

“You’ve been thinking of what work you can have me do, is that it? I have no interest in—”

“No, not work. Crowley, will you please just listen? My dear, just, I need you to listen,” Aziraphale’s knee was bouncing now. That gave Crowley pause; Aziraphale was nervous. There was a lot he was nervous about, but few of it enough that it manifested in some physical way other than the stammering habit he’d acquired.

“I’m listening.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale took time to say. “It’s a rather, well, _intimate_ thing. You understand?”

Crowley was _really_ listening now. He hoisted himself up to sit properly on the desk, one leg bent at the knee so he could lounge just as he did and _really_ listen to his angel. Aziraphale stammered his way through it, face red and hot, but he managed to spill his request. A fantasy, more like it, but phrased ever kindly like a request. A little bit of play, so to speak, where Crowley would once act like a real and true demon. He wanted Crowley to quite near accost him in the bookshop, after close, like it was some type of forceful thing that he’d been dragging Aziraphale into for ages. An agreement, he’d called it, a strange play of words given where they’d started out thousands of years prior.

Crowley continued to listen.

Aziraphale described how Crowley would have had sex apart of the agreement, in exchange for doing all these horridly _nice_ things that he was asked, Aziraphale would be ready at a moment’s notice for whatever he desired. In this particular scenario, which he could only barely make out through his own embarrassment, would have Crowley bend him over his desk and take him. Aziraphale, of course, would do his best to not want the advancements, though he was sure that was a promise he couldn’t keep. He always wanted Crowley; in whatever way he could have him. This was just something specific, a want for Crowley to use him as a means for pleasure. And, when his story finished, he broke off into a cough and—

“I’m sorry, I realize that’s—”

“Angel, don’t apologize,” Crowley had scooted closer, enough that he could put his hand on Aziraphale’s face and comfort him. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do, Crowley, I do.”

“You’re entirely sure?”

Aziraphale nodded, “I’ve never been surer. Oh, my dear, I’ve been thinking of this for weeks, and I’ve only now just found the courage to say something. Do tell me what you think, I can’t stand sitting here feeling like a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” Crowley said plainly. “You’re insatiable, a bit of a princess, but you’re not a fool.” He brought up his other hand that he might cup Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale’s nose crinkled up at the term _princess_ , but he certainly didn’t argue.

“So…?” Aziraphale looked at him expectantly.

“We’ll need a safe word,” which was as close to an enthusiastic agreement as he was going to get. They talked it over for a bit, missed their reservation, and finally decided on—

* * *

“ _Gabriel_ —” Aziraphale gasped, and the scene shattered immediately. Even if Crowley really wanted to take a minute to mention how horrid it was that _that_ was what they’d picked. The effect was as desired; hearing Gabriel’s name in any sort of intimate situation killed any want he had for anything. Still, there was a better time to complain about that.

For now, he snapped his fingers. The lights came on, and he was decent again. Aziraphale could complain about the unnecessary miracles later. After the next snap, Crowley had a particular plush quilt that Aziraphale had left at his flat, on the bed, and it was quite a comfort. He draped it over Aziraphale’s shoulders before pulling him up and into a tight embrace. Aziraphale’s head was tucked up under his, pressed against his chest, and from here, Crowley could see what mess they’d made. Specifically, what mess _Aziraphale_ had—

“You came?” Crowley was suddenly astonished. Aziraphale let out a disgruntled whine into his chest. “Oh, angel, you’re—let’s get you home.”

Aziraphale nodded in wholehearted agreement. All it took was a snap of Crowley’s fingers and they were home; Aziraphale’s clothes were all neatly put away in the closet, and his night shirt was laid out on the bed. What once had been Crowley’s bed and Crowley’s bed alone was now _theirs._ One nightstand had a stalk of books, his unnecessary but cute little readers, and an old-fashioned clock. Crowley’s side was only decorated with a plant, small and lopsided with one large leaf missing.

“Alright, angel,” Crowley’s voice was ever so soft as he led Aziraphale to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I should shower—”

“Already taken care of,” and it should have been obvious. Though, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the lack of a particular discomfort until that moment. Crowley _had_ come inside him, though all evidence was gone. Save the lovely ache forming up the back of his calves, his thighs, over his hips.

Crowley pushed the quilt away only to dress Aziraphale in his night shirt, then he wrapped him back in the blanket before kneeling down in front of him, taking his hands and searching over. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice all the _little_ things Crowley did for him, how in these moments his eyes were uncovered and bled yellow. So demon of him; Aziraphale smiled.

“Are you alright? Can I get you anything?”

Aziraphale shook his head, “I’d like to lay down,” and how his voice was just a little hoarse. “Will you join me?”

“Of course, of course,” Crowley nodded and stood again. He helped Aziraphale into bed, under the silken sheets, cozy around his quilt. For but one moment he left, but it was only to bring Aziraphale things he had expressly not asked for, but Crowley knew. On the little tray was a glass of water and left-over truffles from the night before. Just on the off chance that Aziraphale only did want to lay down; Crowley, on the other hand, was ready to sleep.

He shed down to his underclothes, as he did, then wriggled up into bed right beside Aziraphale. Aziraphale quickly found a comfortable place against Crowley’s chest where Crowley could idly play at the curls on his head and still press kisses into his temple. It was quiet, for a moment, with Aziraphale’s arm draped over Crowley’s hips, their legs together. Peaceful.

“You were wonderful,” Crowley told him. “You were so good for me.”

“Did you…?” Aziraphale questioned, then felt Crowley nod above him.

“Enjoy myself? More than you know, angel. What about you? Everything you imagined?”

Aziraphale let out a pleased little hum, “yes, thank you.”

Crowley snorted. It was hardly a thing to thank him for, but he wouldn’t bother Aziraphale his peculiarities. It was a fine thing, and he curled a little tighter around Aziraphale, who knew well which one of them enjoyed cuddling more. Not that he didn’t. Crowley was a particularly good partner for this as he just seemed to mold himself to whatever position Aziraphale found most comfortable. Like this, Aziraphale could feel over his skin, the scales peeking through. Crowley must have been tired. Aziraphale tried not to feel overly proud that he’d managed to tire Crowley out, and instead smiled into his chest and listened to his breath as it slowed, until it stopped, and Crowley was asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> 𓆏 the frog has escaped!
> 
> [Top Crowley Dicsord](https://discord.gg/6UgMsjH)   
>  [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)   
>  [My Twitter!](https://twitter.com/tantumunawrites)   
> 


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